x has sprung from his nest;
Kind heaven has sent us another professor,
Who follows the steps of his great predecessor.'

The end of the Bath Beau was somewhat less tragical than that of his
London successor--Brummell. Nash, in his old age and poverty, hung about
the clubs and supper-tables, button-holed youngsters, who thought him a
bore, spun his long yarns, and tried to insist on obsolete fashions,
when near the end of his life's century.

The clergy took more care of him than the youngsters. They heard that
Nash was an octogenarian, and likely to die in his sins, and resolved to
do their best to shrive him. Worthy and well-meaning men accordingly
wrote him long letters, in which there was a deal of warning, and there
was nothing which Nash dreaded so much. As long as there was immediate
fear of death, he was pious and humble; the moment the fear had passed,
he was jovial and indifferent again. His especial delight, to the last,
seems to have been swearing against the doctors, whom he treated like
the individual in Anstey's 'Bath Guide,' shying their medicines out of
window upon their own heads. But the wary old Beckoner called him in, in
due time, with his broken, empty-chested voice; and Nash was forced to
obey. Death claimed him--and much good it got of him--in 1761, at the
age of eighty-seven: there are few beaux who lived so long.

Thus ended a life, of which the moral lay, so to speak, out of it. The
worthies of Bath were true to the worship of Folly, whom Anstey so well,
though indelicately, describes as there conceiving Fashion; and though
Nash, old, slovenly, disrespected, had long ceased to be either beau or
monarch, treated his huge unlovely corpse with the honour due to the
great--or little. His funeral was as glorious as that of any hero, and
far more showy, though much less solemn, than the burial of Sir John
Moore. Perhaps for a bit of prose flummery, by way of contrast to
Wolfe's lines on the latter event, there is little to equal the account
in a contemporary paper:--'Sorrow sate upon every face, and even
children lisped that their sovereign was no more. The awfulness of the
solemnity made the deepest impression on the minds of the distressed
inhabitants. The peasant discontinued his toil, the ox rested from the
plough, all nature seemed to sympathise with their loss, and the muffled
bells rung a peal of bob-major.'

The Beau left little behind him, and that little not worth much, even
i